A Secret Affair
by CHSPatriot09
Summary: Claudius, Gertrude, and Polonius challenge the love between Hamlet and Ophelia. This story is a little different, a little R&J if you will. Rated M for mature. 3 chapters. R&R please! Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

"Ophelia?" Hamlet said quietly, peering into her bedroom through the curtains of her open window. He waited, anxious. Had she heard him?

Apparently, she had. She pulled back the long, willowy curtains and stood aside so he could pull himself inside.

"Careful," she whispered, "it's icy. Don't fall."

"Have I ever fallen?" Hamlet murmured, his face inches from hers. He gazed down into her liquid blue eyes, and reached up to run her golden hair through his fingers. He watched it flow through his hand, like satin.

"No," she breathed, so quietly Hamlet considered it a miracle that he was even able to hear her.

"Don't worry so much, my love," he said, his breathing shallow and slightly labored. He reached up tentatively to touch the lines between her eyebrows. "You'll get frown lines."

Ophelia's expression softened a little, and she looked up curiously in Hamlet's face. He felt her studying his hazel eyes. Could he see how much he loved her? Needed her to love him, as well? Could she see his nerves and confusion in them?

"Would you still love me if I wasn't beautiful?" she asked softly.

"You'll always be beautiful in my eyes," Hamlet murmured, and leaned down to press his lips against hers. She ducked out of his reach, and smoothed his loose white shirt over his chest. He felt her tracing the contours of his muscles. "What is it, darling?" he asked her, longing to taste the sweetness of another kiss.

"I know you think I'm beautiful," she said quietly, hushed, so her sleeping father wouldn't hear them talking from his room down the hall. "And thank you. It means a lot that you feel that way. But, would you love me if you _didn't_ think that I was beautiful?"

"I would love you no matter what you looked like," Hamlet said.

"Even if I had my father's calloused hands and his receding hairline?" Ophelia asked.

"As long as you were still Ophelia in here," he said, and pressed his hand on her chest just above her breasts. Gently, he leaned down and kissed her once, twice. A third time, slightly longer than the first two.

Hamlet smiled as he watched Ophelia's face stretch with her radiant smile. He caressed her face with his free hand, while the other slid gently, silently south, and ghosted over Ophelia's bosom.

"Hamlet," she whispered, her breathing a little heavier than the slow, even pace it had held a moment before.

"Yes, my love?" he murmured, lips closing over her earlobe and sucking it a little.

"We must remain quiet. My brother and father sleep just down the hall. They most certainly wouldn't approve of this, and they would probably tell the king and queen if they happened to find out that you are in my room tonight."

"We shall be silent, then," Hamlet promised. Ophelia couldn't miss the profound sincerity of his words. She started up at him as he caught her face gently in his large hands. She did not object again when he kissed her.

Ophelia could only compare Hamlet's sweet kisses to stepping into a pool of cold water. He allowed her to first dip her toes in, to feel the temperature of the kiss. Then he coaxed her into comfort, gave her the time that she needed to get used to the water. Slowly, he kissed her, and she was soon completely comfortably enveloped in his arms, putty in his capable hands, ready to swim.

Eventually, Hamlet broke the kiss, and gazed once more into her deep, fathomless eyes, studying her expression the way he had studied hers previously. His hair, Ophelia noticed, looked odd in the light from the candle burning on her bedside table. It seemed to be a fiery red; usually, Ophelia recalled vaguely, it was a dark chestnut color.

"Lovely lady," he began quietly, "would you like to sit down? It's late, and you seem very tired this evening." His grin was coy and flirtatious, the handsome devil.

Ophelia smiled back up at him. "If you wish, my lord." She swore her smile would tickle her ears if it were any wider.

"Oh, I most certainly do," Hamlet said, thankfully remembering to keep his voice down. When he had that look in his eye, Ophelia thought fondly, there were no lengths to which he would no go. No end to things he would do. When Ophelia saw that look in Hamlet's sparkling eyes, she knew there was no stopping him. No one could keep him away from what he wanted.

At that moment, Ophelia had the feeling that what Hamlet wanted was her. He'd told her so himself countless times.

And, apparently, the king and queen knew, too. Claudius and Gertrude were notoriously nosy, as was Polonius, Ophelia's own father. She sighed.

When Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, had formally begun to court Ophelia, daughter of the king's advisor, Claudius and Gertrude had accused Ophelia of seducing the prince. To end the accusations and assumptions, Polonius had forbidden Ophelia to see, to speak to, or to make contact with Prince Hamlet ever again. Prince Hamlet was constantly under the watchful eyes of the king and queen, and anywhere Ophelia went these days she was forced to bear her brother Laertes as a watchful escort. No matter how many times she insisted that she did not require a bodyguard, Polonius would not budge on the matter, and Hamlet was kept so busy at home these days that he hardly left the castle grounds.

This was what had reduced the two to meeting only in secret, living and breathing for those precious stolen kisses that were forced to last them for days or even weeks at a time. Every word that floated on Hamlet's silky voice, laced with his unmistakeable lust, Ophelia absorbed completely, like a sponge, so as not to forget what his love for her sounded like.

Of course, these secret meetings were highly improper, and their kisses wrapped in the devil's blanket. Usually, these things were overlooked by the church -- common people indulged in sins like these frequently, and their crimes routinely went without consequence, even if they were caught. But Hamlet was Prince of Denmark. The face and voice of an entire country. Every move he made was watched by someone, just waiting for him to make a mistake.

Ophelia wasn't even entirely sure she had her head wrapped around the magnitude of the trouble discovery of their midnight rendezvous would cause him.

Of course, if the public gained knowledge of her affair with Prince Hamlet, her reputation would be ruined. After Gertrude aleady having accused her of being a seductress interested only in Hamlet's power and fortune, Ophelia was afraid to think what would happen if the queen was to discover that her son was still seeing Ophelia behind her back.

Ophelia sat on her bed next to Prince Hamlet. This had, of course, become routine. Hamlet would ride to her home after the rest of the town was asleep, and tie up his horse a short walk from the house. He would skillfully scale the rock wall to her window, then call her name in the smallest of whispers. She would then draw back the curtain, and he would climb inside, where they would enjoy eachother's company and kisses. When the first light of dawn appeared on the horizon, Hamlet would give Ophelia one parting kiss, and leave the way he came. Out the window, down the wall, and through the orchard to his steed. He would ride home in silence, usually thinking about the way Ophelia's silky hair felt between his fingers as he kissed her, and once the way she had felt curled around him as she slept, too tired to stay awake with him.

"What are you thinking of?" Hamlet whispered, watching her face as they sat down on the bed. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to her collarbone, fingering the satin nightgown covering her thigh.

Ophelia sighed. "Should I choose only one topic?"

Hamlet smiled a little. "You always do have too much going on in that head of yours. Tell me the most important, if it isn't too difficult to choose."

Ophelia continued to watch his hand resting calmly on her leg, and smiled. He thought she would be unable to choose the most important topic of her thoughts. How silly. "_That_," she said, "is an easy one. I was thinking of how much trouble you could be in if anyone found out that you come to stay with me some nights."

Hamlet's facial expression quickly shifted from curiosity to frustration...possibly anger.


	2. Chapter 2

"What is it?" Ophelia asked him, worried that it was she who had upset him. Who else could it have been?

He shook his head, as if trying to shake away his sudden temper. It seemed to work: he smiled at her slightly. Now he looked disappointed.

"We sin together, Ophelia," he said gently, emphasizing 'together'. "And you worry about the trouble I could be in for doing so." He shook his head once more. "Nothing will happen to me if we're caught -- it's you I worry about, my love. If my mother should get her own filthy hands on the information that I sneak out to spend the night with you once each week, she would do everything in her power to ruin you, while doing everything she could to protect me. Don't you see? What I'm doing, being with you against the wishes of both our families, is so wrong, Ophelia. Don't you understand what this could do to you if anyone found out? If I wasn't so selfish, I would have ended this when my family told me to do so. When your father forbade you to see me, I would have ended our relationship that moment. But I couldn't. And, you must understand that it was never because you didn't want to be separated from me, or because you wanted to defy your father. Ophelia, I come here at night because of my own selfishness."

He looked up. "Because I love you, and because I'll never be able to keep myself away from you, no matter what it costs me _or _you." He shook his head again. It seemed now to Ophelia as if it was a strain the keep his voice down. He was passionate about this. The sparkle in his eye was growing more and more pronounced as he continued to speak to her. "Don't you see, Ophelia? I am the worst possible thing for you. I'll ruin you."

Ophelia was shocked. She had never heard the prince speak so fervently for as long as she had known him. His face was flushed, he was pale, and he'd run his hands through his hair so it stood on end. He stood up, and strode away from Ophelia, as far away as the room allowed. After a moment of him staring at her from across the room, she stood too.

"I love you, though, Ophelia," he panted, tears in his eyes. "And it breaks my heart that it has to be this way, that I can only see you in secret and that I must constantly fear that our trysts will be discovered, because then your life would be forever changed for the worst. Not that it wasn't the moment I selfishly decided to court you."

"Hamlet, my life hasn't changed for the worst," Ophelia said earnestly. "It has, however, changed for the better. Since you've entered my life, I feel happier, like I'm constantly on a great adventure. I feel, because of you, that anything is possible."

Hamlet looked confused, then amazed. "You honestly feel that way, don't you?"

"Most certainly," Ophelia said. "You're the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I'm perfectly aware of the risk that being with you entails. And I believe that I proved long ago that it is a risk I am willing to take."

"You can't possibly understand how much I love you," Hamlet said. "Everytime I take a breath, I think of you. Every day I wake up in my bed, I wish -- more ardently you could imagine -- that you were lying next to me. Sometimes I imagine the way your golden hair would look, spread out against the color of my sheets."

He shifted where he stood, and Ophelia could clearly see the stiffness of his erection pressing against the front of his pants.

"I apologize," he said, blushing. "I'm not quite sure what's come over me. I'm usually better at controling my baser instincts.

Ophelia made her decision in a moment. Hardly realizing what she was doing, or that it was highly improper, Ophelia began unlacing the front of her long white gown, all the way to her waist. Slowly, she opened it, and looked up at Prince Hamlet once more.

He was staring at her chest, at her exposed breasts, mouth slightly open, panting a little. She waited, and, finally, he looked up to her face.

"Ophelia..."

"I love you," she told him, gently. "There's no need to apologize. I want you too."

"My God," Hamlet breathed, moving forward slightly. Ophelia was glad -- they hardly had any time to spend together, and their stolen moments were wasted while he was so far away. "My dear, you are...so beautiful. Like an angel."

Ophelia smiled, longing for his touch. He slowly closer...closer...finally, he reached out and placed his hands on her waist. Gently, he pulled her body against his, and his lips crashed down against hers, wet and more demanding than previous kisses.

Ophelia, of course, was happy with his reaction. She hadn't really thought about how she would be received...she had just done it, opened her nightgown and shown him her breasts. And now he was kissing her feverishly, roughly...and she didn't mind. Suddenly, Hamlet thrust his tongue into her mouth. Her lips parted easily for him, and she tangled her tongue with his, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her hand in his hair.

He was murmuring into her mouth, but she couldn't understand what he was saying, and it didn't really matter that much anyway. He picked her up easily, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, wanting nothing more than to be as close to him as humanly possible. She felt her back touch the bed, and Hamlet's weight eased on top of her body, then settled there.

His body was surprisingly hot on top of her, and it felt strange to be in such a position. Strange in a good way, Ophelia realized only a moment later. Strange in a way that made her feel like doing stranger things with him. If it was anyone other than Hamlet, she thought, this wouldn't feel right.

She could feel the starchy linen of his shirt rubbing against her nipples, and the hardness hiding in his pants ground against her lower stomach as Hamlet moved over her. She knew what they were doing was sinful, and anyone who found out would be absolutely horrified. The proud prince and the daughter of the advisor to the king. It would cause a scandal....

_Well_, Ophelia thought, _we're going to hell anyway..._

Somehow, she managed to fit her hands in between their bodies, and she began to pop open the fastenings of his white shirt. She pulled the end of it out of his waistband, and unfastened the last few buttons. Hamlet helped her pull it off, and he flung it unceremoniously on the floor somewhere to his right.

Ophelia started on his belt, and then unfastened his trousers. When she was finished, Hamlet sat up, stadling her, and discarded the garments. Ophelia watched as the sweat of his activity rolled down the contours of his muscular chest, down his arms, over his stomach. A single drop of his sweat ran all the way down, over his hip, and into the dark curls surrounding his protruding manhood. It was difficult to breathe. She looked up and watched him as he pushed his damp hair back off of his forehead.

Hesitantly, he looked down at Ophelia, and she smiled up at him. What next? he thought. What was one supposed to do at this point?

Gently, he rolled off of her, to the left side, and helped her to her knees on the soft bed. Slowly again, he kissed her mouth, letting his tongue slide in once more. He tasted the sweetness of her kiss for a moment before using his hands to gently slide the satin of her gown off her shoulders and down her body, so it puddled on the bed around her knees. Gracefully, Ophelia moved out of it, and Hamlet pushed it off the bed onto the floor before positioning himself over her once more.

He buried his face in the pillow over her shoulder, and felt her take him in one of her warm little hands. Gently, she guided him to her, and he pushed inside.


	3. Chapter 3

For Hamlet, it was like diving into a very warm lake: refreshing and pleasureable and completely surrounding.

Ophelia gasped as he entered her, clutched his broad shoulders like she was hanging onto something more precious than life itself. Which she was. She was holding Hamlet.

She felt his mouth near her ear. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, then a moment later realized he was not looking at her; he could not see her. "Yes," she said.

"You're blushing," he murmured. "Your whole body. I can feel it."

"I'm okay," she promised him.

"Will you tell me if I hurt you?"

"Okay," she said.

"I'll stop if you want." His voice sounded different...not so proud or sure as it usually did...he sounded nervous. Even afraid. "I love you."

"I love you too," she said.

For a moment, Hamlet just stayed there, inside her, then he moved a little bit. Then a little more. He built up a rythem, and Ophelia began to push back against each of his movements. To her, it felt like dancing. Exactly like dancing with him.

Hamlet heard Ophelia whimper, and feared he had hurt her. But, when he looked up into her face, her eyes were shut tight in pleasure and she had her bottom lip between her teeth. Her head pressed back into the pillows, and Hamlet moved a little faster inside her. Did she have the same feeling in her stomach as he did? The violent, hungry fire there continued to burn, consuming him until it was all he felt, all he knew. Ophelia writhed in his arms and he pushed harder, and felt her push harder back against him.

"Jesus Christ," he panted, and he thought he heard Ophelia swear in his ear, so low it was hardly audible at all. He shut his eyes tight and clamped his jaw against the intensity of the feelings inside him.

Suddenly, it was all too much. His world exploded in a beautiful disarray of light and color and sound, and it was all he could do to keep the monster in his chest under control, to keep from roaring. He felt Ophelia's muscles contracting around him, felt her squeezing his body with her arms and legs, felt a pain in his neck that he could only assume was her biting his flesh to keep from making the sounds she must have wanted to. He felt his release, and held Ophelia closer to himself as it left him and filled her with its hot, sticky wetness.

And Hamlet rolled next to her, so he wouldn't crush her with the full weight of his exhausted body. He turned his head, and she was sleeping soundly beside him, her golden hair a halo around her beautiful porcelain face. A sleeping angel.

Beyond her slumbering form, he saw the window, and the earliest light of dawn was beginning to crack the sky in the east. Hamlet sighed.

He wished he could stay with her tonight...every night. He wished they didn't have to hide their love, and that they could just be together without the intrusion of his family or hers. He wished things were different, and that he was somewhere else, someone else, anyone else. He didn't want to be Hamlet, Prince of Denmark anymore, and he didn't want her to be Ophelia, daughter of Polonius, nosy advisor to the crooked king.

Hamlet got up quietly, covering Ophelia gently, and dressed, finding his clothes in the candlelight. Silently, he kissed Ophelia's forehead, blew out the candle, and exited through the window. Once more, he climbed back down the wall and crept through the orchard to his favorite horse. He mounted Alexander and rode home, once again thinking about his stolen hours with Ophelia.


End file.
